A Man's Best Friend
by BigBadger
Summary: Blood soaks the Mojave. A caravan is wrapped up in the intrigues of a legion's evil and a clueless Eyebot companion accompanies them for the ride... but who cares? It's just business.
1. Chapter 1

The air about the khaki tent hung heavy. All about the triangle of rough patchwork leather, which was reverberating violently as it surrendered to the evening breeze, the typical sight of relative nothingness was clear; the tent had been erected atop a large rocky outcrop that flaunted a bright, colourful orange which somewhat alleviated the dullness of the flat brown land that encompassed it. There was scant little life here; to the immediate north, a few cacti had pierced the barren and dry dirt to make their lonesome mark, and to the southeast, down the rocky slopes that gave the outcrop its shape, a large herd of Brahmin had been making its way for the past day, looking like a large jagged line against the horizon as the sun began to retreat.

Of the most immediate concern to the inhabitant of this tent was immediately below them, no more than 50 metres from the wall of the outcrop, where small radioactive pools cratered the landscape like shell-holes, framed crudely by creamy rocks that were large enough to fit a car inside. About this small area, a group of Radscorpions stalked about, digging out places to sleep, depositing discarded foodstuffs in the shaded places beneath the rocks; the arm of a ghoul, with what little flesh had remained picked clean; the head of a coyote, eyes still glimmering with the residue of fear and animalistic brutality.

Above this radscorpion den, a small orb bobbed recklessly in the air, piercing the smooth sandy breeze and printing a rapidly distorting shadow across the desert sand as it moved. Finishing its most recent patrol, it turned hastily backwards, skirting the rock-wall and forcing its way through the flaps of the tent.

"Still there, boss," the Eyebot reported, its voice a patchwork collection of audio recordings. It spun in a full circle as its master sat up from the bedroll.

"How many?" the merchant enquired with frustration, resting his right elbow on the stock of a hunting rifle for support and moaning tiredly.

"Five," the Eyebot said loudly; this time as the disjointed imitation of a young girl, "Same as there was an hour ago, and the hour before that. Can't we just shoot 'em?"

"No. I can't get hurt, Vix. I need to see this transaction out in person."

Vix's antennae rocked in frustration, "They're a bunch of savages. They'll take what we give 'em: especially after their last wonderful disaster, they'd be shooting themselves otherwise!" The girl's voice, increasing and decreasing in age in no particular pattern, protested.

"Just in case." Was the only reply.

A few seconds of silence ensued as the human beneath Vix planned his next move. Vix resumed to strafe the tent idly, like a hover fly, mumbling to itself incoherently.

Finally the human stood, lifting his hunting rifle by the tip of the barrel and clutching it with both hands idly. "We're moving" he commanded.

Vix immediately turned and darted outwards. In this short space of time since it had last been outside, the sun seemed to be no-longer retreating; indeed, it was now apparently in a full-scale rout. There was a choking shroud of darkness through which (Vix imagined) no human could see.

"Light on." A voice muttered through the emptiness. "We're headed east for now, going to bank our last riches at William Adams. Then we're going to carry on up until Boulder City and take a hike from there."

"Right on, boss." Vix's circuitry grumbled as a light weakly flickered into life before stabilizing and creating a cone, extending no further than 10 metres, through which the human could see. For its part, Vix again twitched to activate his screen's night vision with a triumphant buff of smoke from its left exhaust port.

For no more than an hour did they travel, over the same barren sand that inhabited in daylight hours, though this time plastered a drained turquoise by the night-time hue. They travelled past the perimeter of the canyon; huge angular rocks, as tall as flats, which progressed from a dull brick-orange to a livelier red-tinted bronze as they progressed eastward. All throughout their travel the wind pursued them, licking at the human's back and spiralling down Vix's exhaust.

At last they came upon the sign of civilization that they wanted when Vix flew visor-first into a crude wall of corrugated iron, swearing loudly in a hearty Scottish accent. The merchant simply laughed, strolling calmly, as if in a position of authority, through a gap in the wall over which a straight, neon sign read "WILL-ADAMS". The eyebot trailed behind the merchant as he walked, musing at how he would occasionally slow down to greet those people he passed; most of them guards holding small pistols, SMGs and the occasional rifle, but some of them shivering, mumbling druggies.

"Enough snorting to make a piggy blush." Vix chimed. One of the addicts had heard this belittlement, protesting quickly by standing to his feet, nearly falling over, balancing himself and pulling out a small knife. He lunged at the Eyebot before its laser could be charged, madly trying to stab at it as the trio of leather-coated guards around them simply watched in uncertainty; after all, it was just a robot.

The addict only ceased when a loud gunshot echoed through the night and he began to cough up blood, losing his grip on the twitching, nervous eyebot before sprawling onto his back against the cold earth.

Vix turned to see his saviour; the merchant had, from his pristine leather coat, drawn a .44 magnum which he casually slid back into its unseen hiding spot, tipping his dirtied pre-war bowler hat as an acceptance of the robot's thanks. He then turned, walking again on coal-black boots that seemed camouflaged against the dark hue of night, and even as the guards watched in shocked indecision, raising their weaponry and then lowering them again, he simply muttered: "Stop pissing off the locals."

"Oh, _stop pissing off the locals!_ " Vix mocked in a posh, English accent that he assured passers-by was intentional. He resigned to slowly trailing the merchant, scant metres above his shoulder, to a large, brown door, framed in rusting steel welding, which gave access to the town hall. His eyes darting protectively about him, the human opened the door and swaggered inside. The Eyebot followed.

Inside, the warm sensation of light made its final reappearance, ode to a trio of gently swaying chandeliers that flickered sporadically, painting morphing grey shadows on the wooden walls and across the decked floor, onto circular tables and about vending machines. To one such vending machine did the merchant walk, his hands scurrying about every pocket for a coin, but not just any coin; he drew a handful, analysing and then discarding each one, until he found the one he wanted; an old, rusting penny, a miniscule red band coating its trim. The origin of this coin the merchant wouldn't ever divulge, but it had great significance to him.

"Oh," Vix muttered, flying over to catch a glimpse and tilting his whole spherical structure down towards the floor in disapproval, " _These_ jackasses again."


	2. Chapter 2

The room was alight with chatter from the traders. Dominating the room was a long rectangular table with a dozen chairs to its name, and the Merchant sat at the one closest. Vix flew above the table in large, crude circles in order to occupy himself, sometimes humming random pre-war musical scores for his own entertainment. Eventually, with the subtle convincing of a few disgruntled moans and cusses, he stopped in mid-air and observed his owner in their exchange.

"I assume you made the run without trouble," a figure opposite the Merchant enquired with a hum of disappointment. She was a scant woman, unnaturally thin so that she looked vaguely ghoulish. She had no right eye, instead bearing a makeshift eyepatch in the form of a bottle-cap secured by a thin stream of duct tape.

"Indeed, nothing but the usual – Radscorpions and the occasional raider. All of the contents made it to the NCR, don't worry. How did the boss even know that bunker was there?"

"He has his ways." She stirred the coffee that lay in front of her and spoke on. Vix watched the swirling steam and spun around to match its movements. "Well, I'll be off now. Got some food to distribute."

"Aren't you a saint?" The merchant mused playfully. The woman simply smirked, winked with her healthy eye and puckered her lips back. "Oh, sorry. Nice to see you too Sputnik."

"Ja! I mean, Da!" Vix shrank down to table-height in embarrassment. "Ja… or Da!" he repeated in confusion, but by then the woman had left.

The merchant sat down, spinning his cup of sarsaparilla in thought and occasionally spinning the cap on the table like a coin. There was not much to be said other than the odd remark at something spoken by one of the merchants sat next to him, and the general lack of activity bored Vix so much that he began to imagine what it would be like to have tears.

He also took the time to take in their surroundings. The hall was surprisingly vast given its mysterious entrance: the back of the vending machine sat in the wall behind the little Eyebot to hide it from dodgy eyes. The hall itself was quite modest given the guild that it housed: the wooden walls were well-kept but undecorated, the long oak table, which one would expect to sit in the great hall of some castle, was a similar story. Vix saw that the seats were notably half-assed; his master sat on a tattered leather chair while the man to his immediate left had legs dangling from a thin black stool, and to the left still was a woman leaned back against a white and turquoise deck chair which was layered with pockets of mould. Finally, there was a large, functional monitor opposite the 'door' which, as Vix began to study it, suddenly crackled into a whine of static as it flared to life. All activity in the room stopped.

The static stabilized into the image of a monitor with a healthy black man's face within it. His moustache and short black hair was neatly groomed and his aura was that of a man with much wealth to his name. He moistened his lips and then spoke clearly and calmly:

"Capollo, come to see me please. Bring your 'partner' too, I suppose." He swallowed quietly before his screen faded to black and the large monitor fell back into static before dimming entirely.

The merchant sighed, placed his palms on the table and lifted himself to his feet. "Vix, come." He began to walk, past the inward muttering of the other merchants that were present.

"Yeah, okay. Want me to fetch a bone and lick my own ass while I'm at it?" Vix muttered to himself, but followed anyway; there was no reason for him to make a scene. It never ended well for him.

The merchant looked back at Vix even as he began to straighten his colour and pat down his trench coat. The Eyebot followed his master out, through a side-door and down a series of winding, old corridors with the typical musty smell and still, cold air. The walls were a bleached grey and moulding until the duo reached the home of their contact, hidden behind a bright red door that looked like a fire escape. Above this door, in the top-left corner, a security camera turned to eye up the man and machine.

"Quite a speedy pair, are we? Good." A voice rang out as the door swung open. The room inside gave off an aura of unexpected friendliness. It was dominated by a circular table taken up by three thick leather chairs, a fireplace crackling away in the middle and providing the only source of light. In the corners of the room, where the light was dim or nothing at all, well-kept maroon wallpaper could just be seen, on which were strewn a myriad of posters – 20th Century recruitment and concert posters, sunset sarsaparilla posters and, Vix's favourite, advertisements for the "new" Eyebot, dated to an unknown time. Above the fireplace at the back was a large poster of a man in Roman garb, tattered by bullet holes.

"Come in, come in." Their host gestured from an unknown place. The merchant strolled inside and Vix followed.

"Behave, Vix." The merchant muttered, shooting a glare.

"Yes, boss! Always, boss!" Vix responded, taking on the voice of a young Victorian boy.

The merchant pulled back the nearest chair and sat himself upon it. Vix zig-zagged for a bit before darting straight downwards and planting himself on another. "What the fuck, I can't even see. This is stupid." He shut up when the merchant again glared with weariness.

Half a dozen footsteps echoed through the room before the final chair was occupied, by a well-kempt man in a striped tuxedo. His face was cleanly washed such that his dark, caramel skin shined proudly, and his hair was generously gelled up.

"Good day, sirs." The man spoke, "Back from your last assignment so soon?"

"Yes, guild master. The NCR took the supplies with generosity. Gave us extra caps, too."

"Good, good." The guild master spoke with absent dismissal. "I have another task for you, then."

"Yes, I heard; we're to start the Vipers and Jackals on eachother, poison one of the water supplies, then sell them our antibiotics for extortionate prices?"

"That was it, yes," the guild master nodded, smiled and propped a large, fat cigar in his mouth. The movement of his wrist caused a light ring which the merchant saw to be a fine gold watch. "However, times have changed. You've got something else to do for me, sir."

"What is it? We'll be glad to hear." The merchant spoke courteously. _What a kiss-ass_ , Vix muttered to himself.

"Tell me, friends… ever heard of the Caesar's Legion?" The man relit his cigar.


	3. Chapter 3

Over Will-Adams, the mirage of heat had loosened its grip as the sun crawled hesitantly back into the sky. The rocks and dry, crusty earth that had appeared brown the night before were now a bleached terracotta and the sky was an empty blue canvas. Business continued as usual, with small blurry figures – merchants and beggars and town guards - hustled about in large groups on either side of the town's major road, buying foodstuffs, talking and shooting cans. Along side paths, coiling uphill between shacks of rusty iron, smaller blurs darted about at speed, children playing hide-and-seek or tag.

With a creak and a mechanical groaning the single gate that led down off of the mountainside in which William Adams was nestled opened. The long, bulging line of caravans, stuffed with a variety of items, began to iron out as the ones in front fed into the entrance and began their travel on the other side.

A trio of birds strafed past the open gate and out into the wasteland, fanning out. One such bird soared over a mound and perched in the carcass of a tree, staring with tilted head down the path, where three hundred metres away Brahmin and carts were dispersing with their masters. It chirped an idle song as it watched the slight churning of dust and the gentle projections of morning sunlight. The bird bent down and began clearing at its foot when a thin red laser speared it from shoulder to pelvis, making it squawk in terror and fall off of its vantage point, collapsing limp on the barren ground below and letting out a sizzle. Smoke billowed off of the corpse where the laser had entered and exited. A mumbling Eyebot hovered above the twig to take the bird's place.

A man, leant against the trunk of the tree with his arms behind him, turned and eyed up the corpse.

"What the hell was that for?" The man took off his hat and pat down his scruffy mat of hair.

"He took my spot! You saw it!" A whining, distorted teenage voice argued back.

"If you don't behave, robot, I'm going to pull the plug on you until we need the help."

"Which you will."

The merchant let out an annoyed grumble even as the distant exchange of voices drew both of the figures' gazes. Just in front of the gate, small distortions of black were fanning out. One was approaching the duo, the brahmin's twin heads scanning about idly as it walked.

"This is them. Behave."

"Whatever. What're we doin' boss?" The voice distorted into a high-pitched whine.

"You don't need to know the details. I'm the one with the pipboy."

"Whatever." The high whine of a child was spiced with sulking.

The merchant was about to respond, his figure straightening up to extend his assertiveness, when the snout and horns of the two cattle-heads rose over the mound and brought a black-and-brown checked cart along with it. Alongside this cart, on the left and right, a handful of figures were advancing alongside.

Three of the figures strolled forward in well-kept brown shirts, their fingers laced with rings of what looked to be gold, though it probably wasn't. They took turns talking to the Merchant, who was listening with intent, and Vix gained altitude to escape the boring business jargon.

Rising above the trees, he saw that a few metres to the cart's right, obscured from the view of the four people by the base of the tree, a man was sat with his heels dug into the side of the slope, and he was forcing patterns into the dirt with his finger.

The eyebot zig-zagged through the air to the man's shoulder. "Hello! I am ED-2599, my owner calls me Vix!" the Eyebot proudly proclaimed, in an echoing man's voice.

To his embarrassment, he received no response.

"Hey, mate?" The Eyebot's voice humbled and quietened as he spoke again. Still nothing.

"Oi, asshole!" He shot past the man's shoulder, a beam of red which tinted the air around it as it flashed silently by. The man turned, his eyes filled not with rudeness or contempt but with innocent alarm, like a deer on a motorway.

He said nothing, but the saddened frown that formed from within his scruffy goatee alerted Vix to his transgression.

"I feel crap now… Can't you speak?" The Eyebot spoke again. The man paused for a moment, as if considering what the robot could have said, before shaking his head hastily.

"Do you have a name? I need to know, 'cause, you know, I need to know who I'm swearing at." Vix explained matter-of-factly.

The man shrugged, tapping one of his breasts where, sewn crudely to a dirty, crumpled vest, the word "Chalk" could be made out.

"Nice to meet'cha, Chalk! Boss'll love someone who don't do so much yapping… Or so he says… wonder who he's referring to." The Eyebot rotated on the spot as it entered thought and the man returned to carving into the dirt.

Vix noted that every so often, when one of the other men said something loudly, Chalk would turn with a look of nervousness, forcing his gaze away before it could meet the side of the cart that blocked the owner of the voice from the man's sight. Each time he did this he would arch his back, tucking his elbows deeper towards his core as if in hiding. The Eyebot thought nothing of it, and continued to amuse himself trivially.

Silence set in for a time, save for the moaning and chewing of the Brahmin as each head vied over a wooden box of feed, the chatter of the merchants, and something else. A wet gurgling sound like someone using mouthwash. Vix listened to this with intent, and as if on-cue Chalk turned, pulling up a revolver which he led down ahead of him, flat side-on atop the slope. He nodded solemnly to the Eyebot, which did nothing but confuse him more, reaching down his shirt and forcing a small purple scarf over his mouth and nose.

The silence was broken when Vix's Merchant turned the Brahmin, patting each head gently as he did, with hunting rifle in-hand.

"I've worked everything out, Vix… and sorry about earlier. A lotta stress lately, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"We're heading off Eastward, that's where our contacts are. Could you serve us as a lookout? Our three new friends pointed it out; your flight is quite the advantage. Means we can keep our cargo out of unsanitary hands, yes?"

"Yeah, sure thing boss."

Five men surrounded the cart as it began to travel, past the tree and towards the east, with the eyebot floating fifty metres above it. All the while, the corpse of the bird lay there, sizzling and silent.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N at the bottom of the text. Enjoy the read.**

"We're here." The Merchant proclaimed from the front of the cart. "Motorheim, and not a day too soon." He pulled up his hat and wiped sweat from his brow as the four other men gathered behind him. He advanced up the path which inclined gently, stopped by the palm of a guard in all-black, holding an automatic rifle. His shoulder displayed his allegiance in the form of a silver Volkswagen symbol, though of course they did not know of its origin.

The Merchant nodded to the guard and stopped, and the rest of his party followed suit.

"Is that everyone?" The guard enquired.

The merchant shook his head and pulled a walky-talky from his pocket by its wiring. He dusted it off and beat it gently with his knuckles until it churned to life. "Vix, come back down to us."

Far above, the message rang through. Vix looked up from his vantage point – a patch of empty air five metres above a wrecked lorry. It stood on the ruins of an old motorway, the bonnet and engine compartment hanging just over the edge where an unknown weapon had turned the concrete and metal to slag and forced the route in half. Below him, within the pillars that held the motorway aloft, Motorheim sat in perpetual shade. He advanced to the end of the bridge and spun down one such pillar like a coil, stopping above his master.

"Here I am, sir." The Eyebot proclaimed, "Don't send me up for reconnaissance and then drag me back down before I spot anything. Fifth time today," He added in a chiding manner.

The merchant glanced it off and turned to the guard. "Business trip," he pointed a gloved finger at the horse-drawn cart, "meeting one of my colleagues to pick up all of our… trade items."

Vix bobbed down and looked into the top of his master's cap. The sudden insidiousness with which he spoke alarmed the little bot, though his melodrama didn't.

"Alright," the guard spat. "In you go. Mind out, it's real scummy down 'ere."

The Merchant, Chalk and another filed down the coiling path that led into a field of slum-houses and wrecked motor vehicles. The two remaining men guarded the cart whilst Vix followed overhead. He watched the spewing of smoke through mouldy brick chimneys, the hustle and bustle of the crowd of scum below. He angled himself skywards to prove his superiority. The merchant continued walking, ahead of the gang, and made vocal his own distaste.

"Smells like terrible alcohol."

"It's Motorheim. Drugs, alcohol, harlots. You name it." Another voice from the trio called.

"Where we goin' big-boy?" Vix dropped in altitude and asked to his master, with a grungy American voice that he thought fit the scene well.

"Looking for the old motor-home park. A purple caravan, that's where our guild-mate is. Has the rest of the cargo. Then we hit the road, up and over the red peaks of the North-West until we reach the old REPCONN HQ. Up near the Great Khans."

"Sorry? I stopped listenin'." The robot cried innocently.

The Merchant blinked and rubbed his forehead in frustration. "North-West."

As the group walked, the hustle of dirtily-clad locals became a dense, jagged line on either side, as the path cut through market-stalls and meeting grounds. The fumes of alcohol, smog and dung grew all the more intrusive to the Eyebot's human companions, who coughed and swiped away air.

Vix drifted forward, turning the corner at the instruction of a billboard that swayed gently in the afternoon drift. Here the constricting corridors, rimmed with slum-buildings, opened into a large flat field, the size of a car park, where the richer and more dominant of the locals lived. A Hundred caravans and trailers lay here, their roofs having holes bored into them, or being removed entirely, to let the light through. Fires crackled within barrels stuffed with ash and the triumphant roars of gamblers rung out from some unseen place.

Vix advanced with his entourage at the rear, calling him to return to them with no real passion. As he floated along, humming to himself one of many tunes he had buried in his hard drive, he caught the envious, confused or malicious gaze of those he passed. He stopped when the tight paths carved by the caravans, like the slums before them, spilled out into a smaller park that was walled off by corrugated iron. The Merchant and the others caught up to him, and Chalk pointed a skinny digit at what they were all observing.

Atop an adhoc throne sat a man in purple garb, a cape hanging loose behind him. His eyes took aim at the people below him, of which there were a dozen, sat on their knees in humble prayer.

"Bless us, please, oh lord of the machine. Bless us so we are warm at night, so our days are safe and full of prosperity." One of the disciples called. The others echoed this chant.

Vix released static in disbelief. "Seriously?" Chalk looked up at him and shrugged.

The man in purple, shifting his weight to his left, shook his head at the crowd who muttered in sadness.

"At least, oh lord, show us the sound of the machine!" The disciple pleaded again. The man nodded and beckoned past the disciples, on the other side of the caravan from the cluster with Vix at the head. Three men in roman legionary garb, two holding baseball bats and one holding the grip of a 9mm pistol, still embedded in the holster, came into view. The baseball legionaries took positions on either side of the crowd such that they, and the man in charge, formed a somewhat equilateral triangle that encased the disciples. The man with the 9mm pistol wandered out of view, behind the leader, and the revving of a car engine sounded off. On closer inspection, the merchant nodded; a bonnet, now puffing with smoke, was barely visible behind the pile of trash and the throne.

All at once, the faces of the disciples lit up with joyous awe as they glanced between each other. It was like a child, scarcely at the age of self-awareness, seeing Santa Claus at the shopping mall for the first time. None of them knew what to do, but something otherworldly told the disciples that the roaring of the engine was something great.

Chalk rolled his eyes as he scanned the bickering mass of knelt heads. He shrugged in disbelief, attracting the attention of one of the legionaries, who advanced on him without a single uttering. The other followed, each of them swiping hard at the mute man's knees before he could react, sending him tumbling with a loud grunt. The merchant drew from his person his hunting rifle, holding it barely an inch from the closest legionary's hockey-masked head. Vix squealed and charged his laser rifle, firing it prematurely and coring a caravan at the edge of the park.

Immediately the disciples scattered in shock and horror, even as the third legionary came around and aimed his pistol squarely at the merchant's core. The men with the baseball bats continued to beat the coughing, grumbling Chalk until his cheeks turned a dark duck-egg blue and his eyes fluttered as he strained to maintain consciousness.

"Hey!" The merchant called, "Off of him, you thugs! I'll blow your head off!"

"Yeah!" Vix called in the gravelliest voice he could muster. "I'll cook your insides you Mother fu-"

"Vix!"

The robot grumbled, "Sorry boss."

"He's an unbeliever!" One of the disciples called. As they took their time to turn, staring down the violent scene behind them, a golden denarii could be seen hanging from their neck, like a medallion.

"Break his legs!" Cried another.

"Feed him to the Ghouls!"

"Enough." The man on the throne, whose eyes showed vague amusement at this most unusual of circumstances, called with a monotony that enforced his dominance without imposing further aggression. "Let this one answer for himself."

The two legionaries nodded to their overlord, dragging Chalk up and holding him there. His head rolled slowly.

"Who are you? Why are you here?"

Vix looked at Chalk, and then at the leader of the Romans. "He can'-"

"I was not talking to you!" The leader seethed. "Let me try again," He loosened his cape, "Who… are you?"

Chalk bowed his head in defeat. The leader simply chuckled.

"Make him speak."

The two romans each took turns landing a firm blow which sent loud cracks ringing out and made the onlookers wince. Chalk coughed and staggered, but the men shoved him forward.

"He's Chalk, and he can't even _talk_ you bloody barbarians!" Vix cried out.

The leader averted his eyes from Chalk, instead watching the Eyebot bob through the air in figures of eight. The merchant watched him too, but his gaze was far more foreboding.

Silence settled for a few moments. "I like you." The leader said at last. "So, who is in charge of this Chalk?"

"That is I," the merchant tried his best to look presentable, tucking his rifle away. "I come from the guild of merchants, I'm here for the rest of the cargo. I apologise for the… rudeness, of my colleagues."

"Ah. You are on time. Release this… Chalk… until such a time as a board most suitable is found for it."

The romans grumbled, dropped the brutalized man and receded from the merchant's sight.

 **Something about this chapter seems off, especially regarding the description of the action sequences and the location itself. I can't quite put my finger on it, though. If anyone could take the time to comment and tell me what needs improving, if anything does at all (and I hope not!) then I'd be grateful. Thanks.**


	5. Chapter 5

Inside the caravan, the circular glass table was respectably large; a metre or so in diameter, but the aura of power that the man behind it gave out made even that seem miniscule.

"So you are here for your cargo?" The man in roman garb asked at last, after giving the three men in front of him a curious eyeing up each.

"That's right."

"And who are you?"

The Merchant slid up the chair, obviously taken aback by this sudden questioning. "This here is Mickey, used to be NCR." He pointed to the man on his right and Vix turned to look at the man he had yet to identify, abandoning the scorched, laser cut carving he had been making on the side of a fridge.

Mickey nodded to the Merchant and then shot the Roman a look of scorn which he returned. "Yeah, that's me… _Legate."_ He sank back into his seat as he spoke that word, never dropping his gaze, as if it carried some horrible weight with it.

The Legate smiled, and then turned to the beaten up man who sat staring at an ashtray on the table. "Chalk, is it?" He recalled. "And who would you be, Merchant? I care not for the rabble of a guard outfit you have, as I'm sure you understand. And nor does Caesar."

"Not important, sir. All that matters is that I am a representative of the Mercantile Guild." He placed something on the table, which the Legate took and analysed. It was an old passport from before the war, carefully coloured blue with a yellow dollar sign from top left to bottom right; the symbol of the Mojave Merchants' Guild. The Legate flicked through it, glancing over signatures ranging from the jewel of the Mojave itself, Vegas, all the way down to Boulder City and Novac. He looked over the picture of a blunt featured man in his mid-30s with a cut down his right cheek and a slight overhang of the mouth that belied the intelligence shown by his eyes. Gazing up at the man directly opposite him, the Legate nodded.

"Alright. Octavian will bring the package to you. I trust your Brahmin can handle the extra load?" He asked with false concern, drawing a gloved hand up and pointing out of the window to where a two headed bull moaned and chewed feed, letting great chunks spill out of sight as it did.

"Of course."

"Anything else?"

There was silence until Mickey spoke: "Yeah, I got a question." The thick city voice asked venomously. He hadn't taken his eyes off of the Legionnaire the entire time. "What's with that whole religious shit, the 'Lord of the machine'?"

"You noticed, did you, Republican?" The Legate chuckled the way a bully holding a kid's valuables just out of reach would. Fitting for a Legionnaire, Vix thought, and the slight cringe and pulling away of Mickey attested to that. He'd obviously seen too much in his time.

"I've got a few men underneath that rubbish pile; you know, the throne made out of splintered planks, broken chalk from plastered walls and the like? Yeah, every Sunday at 11am the settlers come; some old world tradition from the former 'Great War', they say." The Legate took a breath to make sure he didn't say too much. "They're thick as super mutant shit, get all excited whenever we make the engine roar. There's an old 4x4 you see, workin' condition. Somehow they never found it. Like I said; Super Mutant Shit."

The trio nodded in comprehension, or at least the Merchant did. Chalk was rather detached, finding the odd glimmer in the corners of the caravan walls where they had been meticulously cleaned, or the spilling of a dust particle into the rays of light from the desk lamp, to entertain his attention. The ex NCR just stared with resolved loathing, mimicking the movements of the Legate's lips and occasionally spitting in disgust at nothing in particular.

"Anyway," the Legate moved on, "Your cargo and its guard. I've signalled for him to remain outside the Western gate. He'll have directions for you. He knows the Khans quite well."

"The Khans?" The Merchant muttered and scanned the room for a clue that wasn't there.

"He hasn't told you?" The Legate chuckled, "aren't you in for a surprise. Ave, my friends."

"Ave." The Merchant nodded, and Chalk did too. The Legate stared expectantly at Mickey.

"Fuck yourself."

"Mickey!"

"Ave." He forced himself at last.

As the trio departed with Vix floating behind them like a Rottweiler, they passed down to the West of the slums, where the road sank into a deep bowl and rose, a hundred metres away, into the Western gate. The people here were less zealous, and colder; their eyes less filled with glassy indoctrination than with the glassiness of having lived in sorrow for some time that nobody in the group could guess. Vix found himself forced to speak.

"I feel sorry for these guys. Y'know?"

"What?" The trio all turned around. Vix saw Chalk nod in agreement, a thin smile creeping up either cheek, and felt compelled to continue.

"All these people, I mean. Yeah, robots are like, **way** better than you… but that's why I feel sympathy, yeah? If only they could be like me."

"You're too soft, Eyebot." Mickey muttered through the trailing smoke of a fag. He coughed slightly.

"What? I'm sure if we gave them some of the caps we get…"

"Too soft. Grow a pair, bot." Mickey dismissed him again.

The slum houses and market stalls on either side of the dirt and cardboard 'road' fell away as the ground inclined again. They reached the gate, another man in black giving them the go ahead to leave, but the Merchant turned.

"Mickey's right." The Merchant spoke, but with no concern.

"Hey?"

"You're staying here, we'll call you when we're done."

"You can't do that!"

"Stay here." The Merchant's voice was emotionless, almost artificial, but himself being an Eyebot it didn't set off any alarms in Vix. His master had been weirder in the past.

The Merchant turned and headed through the gate, Mickey following barely inches from the tail of his sprawling trench coat.

"Kiss ass!" Vix howled.

Chalk stopped, a few metres from the other two, and turned to Vix. He laughed at the robot's remark but no sound came out. He then turned, and walked off.

Alone, with the darkness of night closing in, Vix circled and carpeted the slums around him with vivid strobe light that flashed up iron walls and made patches of dirty water glimmer. He ignored the arguing of the locals; he got bored easily while alone; and let the tutting, swearing, yelling and even the throwing of discarded nuka cola bottles slip past him.

Vix stopped, noticing some drama on the other side of the gate that he wished he had paid attention to earlier. Muffled howls. Muffled _cries_ even. Two of them. One sounded feminine, the other childlike. Vix spurred up the courage to defy his master and charged through the air, towards the gate, but as he reached it the capped head of the Merchant moved to meet him.

"Ever the eager beaver, V? Come on then." He led the Eyebot away.


	6. Chapter 6

"Still nothing but rocks and shit," Mickey called from the front of the caravan, chuckling to himself, though he had no reason to be happy. They had been trudging through distorted air that was runny with heat for hours now, stopping every so often such that one of the Brahmin could have a drink.

Nothing much had changed. The jagged sand-grey rocks were very much the same, the cracked brick dirt that had long been sapped of fall life save the occasional carcass of a tree was identical. They hadn't really gotten anywhere.

So as the two men and the robot clustered in the middle of a horseshoe of tents, each occasionally glancing at the expanse of wasteland to check for Radscorpions, ghouls, raiders or the like, they hopped that Chalk would bring with him good news. Mickey's radio had been spewing static at odd intervals, almost like someone had set their toddler loose on a tower, and the mute man had been sent ahead to check for the source. They needed someone to ask for better directions from – having gone in circles, or a path undeniably similar to a circle, for more times than they cared admit.

Chalk couldn't talk. He had been sent ahead under the assumption that this would make him stealthy, but now they had been shot in the foot by their own scheming. As the air grew colder and more menacing and the amber sky began to dull and weaken, there was still no sign of Chalk.

Vix floated into the smoke of the fire, letting it rise around him. "I'm bored. Let's talk about stuff."

"Like what?" Mickey raised an eyebrow as he began to clean his service rifle.

"So why are we on this trip, anyway? Nobody told the little old robot." He spun around to face the Merchant defiantly. The man shrugged in response.

"I need to get away from the NCR." Mickey grunted, "Too much corporate bullshit in the army for my taste."

"Me and the tosspot in front of me are guild-mates, ain't that right boss?" He giggled like a schoolgirl.

"You could say that." He turned around, sitting cross-legged with his back bathed in light from the fire. He was watching the caravan that stood in the shadow of the tent furthest out from the shoe. It was barely visible, the small fire they had set up being too weak to make any details obvious. The horrible grating and groaning still filled Vix's circuits, and the impulses would – he imagined – have made a normal person feel sick.

"Fair enough. How long have you known each other?" The old serviceman wasn't really interested, but it was dark out, and there was nothing to shoot and no alcohol to drink. Vix could make out his fingers twitching in frustration, especially at that last part.

"Ten years." The merchant groaned.

"Really?" Vix let out a streak of static as his voice programs changed, "Objection!" An old juryman cried, "I thought it was only eight!"

"It was definitely ten." The merchant hissed, and the aggressive venom in his voice urged Vix to back down.

Thankfully, before awkwardness to ensue, Mickey spoke out. "Look over there, guys, our infiltrator's back." He aimed his rifle at a silhouette which was moving between two tents, his legs and feet the first bits of him visible as he approached the light. One of his ankles was a sickly duck-egg blue.

"Whatever happened?" Vix called with the melodrama of a Broadway actor. Chalk sat down by the fire, wincing as his injured ankle was tucked beneath his thigh. He began to make motions with his hands. Mickey and the Merchant exchanged bewildered glances, neither of them understanding.

"Vix. Translate." The Merchant commanded.

"Of course, master! Do you want sugar with that too?" The Robot seethed rebelliously, but sighed when the merchant glared at him. "Fine, just this once."

The mute man performed his act and the Eyebot scanned his movements. "Okay, checking data… High School. Booby traps. Voices. Got injured by… something. Hard, metal. That's it."

"Booby traps?" Mickey looked up. His rifle was glistening as if fresh from the factory now. "We can't go in then, too risky – if one of us gets injured…."

"We _are_ going in." The merchant proclaimed. "Since _someone_ got us lost."

"Hey! Some of my data's corrupted!"

He waved off Vix's protest. "Since we are lost," he continued, "We need to get in. There's people there, they'll tell us where to go, if we're lucky."

"And if not?"

"We'll make sure the caravan gets out, and try another route until we _do_ get lucky." The merchant, seemingly satisfied with his answer, nodded and crossed his arms. He stared at Mickey expectantly.

"That's… idiotic. We can't go in."

"Who has the caps, soldier?" The Merchant peeled down the scarf covering his mouth and grinned with pearly-white teeth. His whole face gleaned with that surge of confidence, as if he realised he was in his element. And he was; he'd done this a hundred times before.

The mercenary grumbled in protest, but the Merchant waved it off as if he was happy with that response. "Now, Chalk, can you get us inside?"

Chalk nodded, smiling with closed lips like a youngster. He stood up and hobbled a few metres before Mickey jogged up to help him.

They were led up and out of the camp, across a path through the hills that was barren – like the rest of the Mojave – save for the odd petrol station where abandoned cars sat dormant and rusted, some unfortunate past owners still lending their skeletons and tattered clothes off to the mercy of nature. They passed two such stations before reaching a perimeter fence that led into a tall block of flats, stood alone except for the piles of rubble and ruined foundations around it. Obviously this had been something else before the war, a hamlet or town of sorts. Chalk stopped, tapping Mickey to help him turn. His face was lit up with fright.

"What is it?" The Merchant asked, turning to Vix in that _you know what to do_ sort of way. Vix hummed in recognition:

"Big. Green." Vix spoke.

Mickey and the Merchant glanced at each other in realisation, but before they could start to argue again, a voice from over the fence interrupted them:

"Nu'wun caught that hooman that come in!? Behn is a stupid arss!" Something yelled out in rage and frustration.

Another voice, stunted with the same sort of childish inability, argued back: "I got 'im well good I did! Yuu di'nt see! Da bottulcap mine went "BEWM" and he flew like bird!"

Vix burst out laughing, and the voices stopped. The three men gave him a damning glance before spreading out to face their aggressors.


End file.
